Inkwell spring 2016 v1vvvvvvvv by Jay Snodgrass

THE INKWELL

THE INKWELL MANAGING EDITOR RACHEL MCNEILL

ART DIRECTION

HUNTER MCLENDON

ASSOCIATE EDITORS KIMBERLY BURNS NICOLE KELLEY FACULTY ADVISORS

MARIA STUDEBAKER-COPPAGE JAY SNODGRASS

C AT E N A R Y I S S U E

DEAR READER,

My favorite word is catenary. Merriam-Webster defines catenary as “the curve assumed by a cord of uniform density and cross section that is perfectly flexible but not capable of being stretched and that hangs freely from two fixed points,” which is to say it is the curve a powerline makes. I love powerlines. I like the way they hang, slack, the sharp metallic rods they are affixed to, their stark urbanism in the middle of a cotton field. I grew up thinking they were an eyesore, tainting a scenic brick street or rural landscape with ho-hum utility. Last summer, my professor took a photo of a powerline and shared it on Facebook. He put thought into the title and filter, which made me wonder what he found so appealing about a powerline. I still do not know, but I can empathize. Last year, my family went on a road-trip across four states. My parents navigated while I sat in the backseat, listening to alt-indie and staring catatonically out the window. Truck routes do not offer much in the way of scenery, so my eyes followed the powerlines that ran alongside the road. Idly, I wondered what curve they made. Was it a half-circle? Probably not. A parabola? I decided yes, it was. Google said no. It was a catenary, and I was delighted. What a fantastic word, a math term for one of my favorite things that included the word cat. It is like catenary had a Tinder profile of all the traits I wanted in a word: phonetically interesting, containing cat, mathematical, obscure. I swiped right. Later that year, I became editor for The Inkwell. As editor, I had god-like control over the layout, theme, and content. The professor who had taken the powerline picture was one of the two advisors for the magazine, and suggested the theme “catenary”. I latched on to the idea. For every poem or short story, there is a piece of visual art: a sketch, a painting, a catenary. Over the past few months, I have taken countless pictures of powerlines. I love their slope, I love their complex starkness, and I have had a lot of fun this issue. There is no real reason to my obsession, except that it makes me happy. Sincerely, Rachel MeNeill Editor

CONTENTS ARCHER MCNEILL

The Movement of Celestial Bodies CALYPSO CARPENTER

Prolepsis into Pop History

LAKIN KNOP 14

JARED WARMACK

KESHA BROWN

Shotgun

EMILY ARWOOD

Eighteen

EMILY ARWOOD

On Being the Girl Who Doesn’t Cry REBEKAH ARWOOD

PPACTRIK 22 EMILY ARWOOD

The Cloosh-Maker RICHARD VONIES

Flight

Studio Home

MARCELLINA LOPEZ

BENJAMIN ASHLEY GARDNER

Sweet One

Something from Evil

Red

MICHAEL SERINE

Sunday Afternoon

HANNAH JOHNSON

MICHAEL SERINE

Trust

KELSIE ALLEN

Four Walls

MICHAEL SERINE

I Hear My Family Singing KENNEDY BOWDRY

BRYAN SAMUEL

Let Me Out

MACKENZIE MOBLEY

AMANDA COTHERN

ARCHER MCNEILL

MARIA STUDEBAKER-COPPAGE

“She is a Rainbow, Bold as Love

Dreams

Sonnet of Choices JULIA HARRIS

ANSLEY WARREN

Carpe Diem 24

PPACTRIK 45

JAYM DENSING

ALLISSA MCCOOK

Fire

KIMBERLY BURNS

JARED WARMACK

PPACTRIK 51

Confrontation

On Being a Single Parent

Passionless Pursuits

REBEKAH ARWOOD

Three a.m.

SAMANTHA ROSE ARWOOD

ARCHER MCNEILL

SAVANNAH LUCKEY

Running Away

SAMANTHA ROSE ARWOOD

ARCHER MCNEILL

EMILY ARWOOD

LUCKEY 57

EMILY ARWOOD

A Desperate Chase of Rows

Coast

Joni Mitchell

TYRONICA MCCRAY

Blast From the Past

Twelve

BENJAMIN ASHLEY GARDNER

Savior

ASHLEY MEYER

Remnant

EDWARD FREEMAN

Walk with the Elephants

HANNAH LANGE

SAMANTHA ROSE ARWOOD

DEVIN ALLEN

HUNTER MCLENDON

MARIA STUDEBAKER-COPPAGE

Dream Definitions

The Rose Garden DREW EVERETT

ARIANNA KIMBLER

Brothers

DEVIN SPENCER 67

JARED WARMACK

TABETHA BROOKS 62

DREW EVERETT

Dream: Stabbed at a Movie Theater

MARIA STUDEBAKER-COPPAGE

Foundation

Adolph Turk

BRENT BURDICK

Gumption

ANONYMOUS

MICHAEL SERINE

Little Boy Gone JASMINE ADAMS

EMILY ARWOOD

Flickers

AMANDA COTHERN

100

MICHAEL SERINE

101

Nine Days: The Girl with the Plague HANNAH LINDQUIST

102

ARCHER MCNEILL

104

SAMANTHA ROSE ARWOOD

107

PPACTRIK 112

Escaping a Dream COLE BOWLING

113

JULIET TOOLE

116

ARCHER MCNEILL

“...the name derives from the Latin catenaria (‘chain’).”

Encyclopædia Britannica

The Movement of Celestial Bodies CALYPSO CARPENTER

Exuberant: the energy of the crowd during the daily race between the sun and moon Mystical: the cause of the changing tides Tranquil: the flow of a night spent on a blanket in the middle of an open field Mahi Mahi: the color gradient of the heavenly bodies after 7:30 PM Frappucino: the smell of happiness when the sun sinks toward the horizon line Ovejas: white masses in the otherwise endless expanse of sapphire Toccoa: what the Cherokee sighed as the moon chased away the sun Sandia: splendid taste of divine display Pearl: iridescent luster of the natural flashlight of night Kaleidoscope: the reaction of Godâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s palette meeting His great canvas in the firmament

Prolepsis into Pop History BENJAMIN ASHLEY GARDNER

—Epistemolero— We are coming into the black. Absinthe vicinity, near where They’ll discover Ozzie with his Head gone missing, collected. The Osbourne family’s crypt Ripped, stripped, and defiled. Closed-circuit the flip book’ll Show whodunit, a grizzly how. Only no one grasps, this perp? Broke through concrete, dead Lifted, then slid the granite lid. —Epistemolero— From way back, we walk-in, Coming out of the black shoe. Mirror, closet-sketched, will Not do as of bedtime. Plath’s 2004 restored addition orders Each bolo must broadcast this: “It’s Sylvia’s homunculus that Witnesses, reading Mommy’s Cut poetry for an aging Ariel.” Wee bedside armchair rocking The night away. From a stand Ozzie’s head grins like those Cursed & shrunken Bornean Tribesmen he once collected For the crazed vibe, digging Lewd, center stage grins of Coconuts with cursed teeth.

JARED WARMACK

Sweet One

KESHA BROWN

Everyday she goes through life and people think she’s just too sweet. On the outside, she seems so put together, so perfect, the kind of girl that boys take home to meet their friends and families. Inside she bleeds, tortured. No one can see, except for those close to her and she doesn’t let anyone in that way. She doesn’t want to be hurt. When she lets someone in they always let her down. Her heart’s been broken numerous times, too many to count. It’s time for her to make that plunge and turn the other cheek, to forgive the ones who hurt her and finally set her soul free. Living life with an icy heart is not the thing to do. She chalks it up to experiences learned time in which she grew. Now she tries to live her life how she wants to. She doesn’t hold back, she doesn’t give in, and she doesn’t take things for granted. The person she sees on the inside is almost like the one on the outside; a little more growing, and little more patience, and she’s gonna be just fine. Everyday she goes through life and people think she’s just too sweet. The person she was won’t be found, but don’t think it’s over and done. Inside in her beating heart, she can still be called the sweet one.

Shotgun

EMILY ARWOOD

Everything was automatic. Losing you: like a bullet in the stomach I enjoyed every minute of it. I pull the trigger with other people and Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m more hollow than the shells that clink at my feet.

Eighteen

EMILY ARWOOD

When I turned 18 my expectations lowered like my top bunk, flat on the ground and still, less stable. A more casual approach fractured me with the weight of my first real decision. Buried my ribs under and broke my heart like he broke my wrist. Less is more. More what? Less of you is more silence at 4 am. Less of you is more vomit on a stranger's floor. Less of you is more of him and him and him and anyone. Your life is a softly glowing screen in my room, a light-housing contrast to the life I let fall by the wayside, and I wonder if you think of me still. â&#x20AC;&#x192;

On Being the Girl Who Doesn’t Cry REBEKAH ARWOOD

These days I see a lot of social media posts on being the girl who is there for everyone else, faces her issues alone, and smiles even though she’s crying on the inside. There’s a type of sympathetic lauding following such posts. "I understand how you feel!”, "Stay strong!”, "I’m here for you!” The idea of the strong, silent, secretly wounded female seems to be fairly pervasive in our currently overexposed society. She’s the antithesis to the emotionally needy woman that we’re told we should never be. She doesn’t crack, she doesn’t need, and she never ever shows just how much pain she’s in. It sounds terrible. It sounds strong. It sounds necessary. A woman is often driven to this state by a distinct lack of resources. There isn’t enough money, enough time, enough emotional energy for everyone’s needs to be met. The discerning woman sees this gap, knows there isn’t enough to go around, and tells them she’s already eaten so everyone else can have one more bite. There is something noble and sacrificial in this, and yet I believe we often take it too far. We’ve taken what should be a response to crisis and stretched it out into the everyday. We learn to need less and less during seasons of lack and like an emotional anorexic soon forget that we ever needed in the first place. This forgetting, this going numb, it isn’t a solution. It’s a slow death. We don’t need any less than we did before,

we just forget it. The need grows and grows until it consumes everything, only we’re so unprepared for the reality and necessity of having personal resources that we don’t even remember how to ask for help. Chances are we’ve forgotten what help even looks like. Strength runs out. And once it does it becomes painfully obvious that it was never true strength to begin with. It was fear and pride. Fear that there would never truly be enough to satisfy. Pride in the ability to go so long without. This emotional masochism needs to be brought into balance. There is nothing healthy or praise worthy about consistently denying having significant needs, physically, emotionally, and spiritually. Yes, there will absolutely be seasons in life where cares and concerns need to take a back seat for the benefit of others, however we cannot let that be our default. We also have to be willing to let others put their needs aside for ours. If it doesn’t go both ways then we aren’t living in strength; we’re living in bondage. Admitting that there is something that you can’t do alone takes far more strength than pretending you have it all. It takes vulnerability. It takes risking that the other person might not come through for you. It takes humility and a willingness to look weak. This type of strength increases your connections and never isolates, or diminishes your worth as a human being. Let’s do a little more crying, shall we?

PPACTRIK

EMILY ARWOOD

The Cloosh-Maker RICHARD VONIES

“How will we beat them?” Joe said to Ed. “You know we don’t have such a thing. With competition such as it is, What we really need is some zing. Something to make the other ones notice That we are still in the fight. A gimmick that they haven’t thought was worth much But that will make our business right.” Just at this moment, a knock on the door Brought them at once back to earth. The man that appeared was smiling at them As though he alone knew his worth. “I am the one that you wished for,” said he. He seemed to have answers in hand. He knew that their troubles were duck soup for him, For he was the best in the land. “What is my specialty and what do I do? Why, I am the best to be had. I am the Cloosh-maker, oh, yes-siree, And Clooshes will soon be a fad. If we’re to do business, I’ll need a few things To make the first Cloosh appear. A swimming-pool, water, ten meter board, And fifty thousand dollars a year. One other item that I must have Is a lab, complete will all tools. A twelve-foot fence with barbed wire on top Will give me a place oh-so-cool.”

Joe and Ed didn’t want to seem dumb, Not knowing what a Cloosh was or did. Was it really worth all the Cloosh-maker asked? Their company was sure on a skid. Their debt was so big, what’s a few thousand more? Especially for such great return. And so they struck the deal with this man; After all, it was this or adjourn. For over a year the Cloosh-maker toiled With nothing to show for his time. He worked every day behind his locked fence. The pool-water took on a slime. The partners began to question their deal. After all, what did they know? The Cloosh was not here and business went down To the bottom, and what could they show? Finally, there came the awaited day. The Clooshmaker announced, “I’m done! I’ll test the Cloosh at quarter-past eight Monday morning and you’ll see I’ve won.” The appointed time came, and a crowd gathered there To see this magnificent sight. The Cloosh-maker came from his lab with a box. Pipes, switches, gauges all white. He climbed to the top of the ten meter board, To the end, as he hummed out a song. And he stood out there with the box in the air. He stood there for ever-so-long. When the moment seemed right, he let go of the box. It hurdled down towards the water. Everyone gasped with one voice and The box went, “CLOOSH!”

Flight

AMANDA COTHERN

Streaking through the forest, thundering paws in the distance, gaining. Avoiding underbrush. Escaping. A clearing! Wildflowers, freedom. Open air, promise of relief. Chrilled breeze through red fur. Wings. Unfurled, feral. Free! Ascending. Away from pursuers, hidden in the cloud. Far away now. Free! Safe. Breeze, lightly ruffling. Gust, persistently pushing. Gale, forcefully denying. Spiraling down. Ground rushing up. Wings failing. Earth. Cold, unforgiving. Fur, damp. No rain, no water. Metallic. Darkness descending. Peace. Freedom. Finally. Free.

ARCHER MCNEILL

MARIA STUDEBAKER-COPPAGE

Sonnet of Choices JULIA HARRIS

I could have been a doctor and found the cure for cancer. I could have been on Broadway, a singer and a dancer. I could have been a teacher or rescued children from the heap. I could have been at the bridge when he decided not to leap. I could have been so many things, but Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll never get a say. I could have changed the world, but the world will never see the day. When did the right choice become silencing those who have no voice?

â&#x20AC;&#x192;

Something from Evil LAKIN KNOP

I saw his flesh standing before me. I no longer knew his soul, only his name. His eyes glowed red, like the devilâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s. His voice hissed when he spoke. The words that slipped from his lips were nothing less than a lie. When he touched me, it felt like a thousand needles piercing my skin. He came from evil that no one should be subjected to. He was comprised of bad habits, poisonous words and lies. But I love him, and he loves me.

â&#x20AC;&#x192;

Studio Home

MARCELLINA LOPEZ

A house in the middle of everywhere-warm and cozy inside, like in the movies. A family smiles, like everything is alright. My mother doesn't yell or cry. I've sworn since I was a kid that life would be just like that, like what I had seen on TV. Reality couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t touch me. Reality: Momma sneaking around; suspicion and pain. Daddy living a double-life, thinking that she won't find out. We're all under one roof, he says, but we can't see through these walls. I never imagined how much it hurt when a stranger calls your dad, "Dad". â&#x20AC;&#x192;

Red

ANSLEY WARREN

Red is how you feel when you first see him in the hall at school. You stare without realizing and when you finally see him staring back, your face is red. Red is what you feel inside when your mind races back to the moment in the hall and you think about his striking eyes and sharp cheek bones; his smooth, flowing gait and dark red hoodie. When you walk out of class and start to head home, you see him in the parking lot. Red courses through your body like lightning and your heart flutters. When you get home you tell your mom about this handsome brooder at school and your face is red and your heart is an even deeper, richer red. He approaches you in the hall and asks your name. Your mind races and your face burns. You stutter out your name and his gentle hand caresses your elbows. You can’t look away and you fall ever further into his charm. He speaks so gently and his voice is deep and hearty. He tries to make you look him in the eye but all you can do is look at your red shoes. Then he asks you on your very first date. You come down the staircase and see him waiting in the foyer. Your gut tells you that you’re not ready for this… Oh, but, he is so handsome. You swallow your fear and keep coming down the stairs. Your determination to have this boy is red. When you approach him he pulls deep red roses from behind his back. You nearly swoon. When you get into his car your mind is surprisingly blank. He gets in and starts the car and you head off on your date. You arrive at your destination and have the time of your life. You’re just talking about life now and you feel like you’ve known him for ages. You can hardly stop laughing and then you realize that he is staring at you. Your heart nearly stops when you realize what is going on and your blood runs cold. He slowly

gets closer and takes your face in his warm, soft hands. He kisses you and you see red sparks everywhere. Your body feels like it is melting and you can hardly contain your grin. You look at him as he pulls away and realize that he, too, is red in the face. It has been months since you two first started dating. It’s been a dream and he’s the most amazing being you have ever encountered. You feel strange whenever you are alone with him. It is pure bliss, but you crave more. You want more from him. You want all of him, completely. Red is your desire to make him all your own on an entirely different level. Years later, you find yourself with him down on one knee and your heart all aflutter. You begin to weep for joy and ecstatically say yes. You immediately want to start planning your big day, the day when he finally becomes yours. Completely yours. You want a big, extravagant ball gown and a grand hall just for your wedding. You cannot wait for the moment that he finally becomes all yours and no one else’s. Your wedding day has come and gone and you share a cute little house together in a perfect little neighborhood. Your marriage, however, is anything but perfect. He has taken up drinking and staying out until the early hours of the morning with his “work buddies.” You’re curious as to who these “buddies” are. You’re almost sure that his middle-aged coworkers do not wear that lovely perfume that you saw at the mall the other day. Your suspicion grows so you tell him that you are going out of town for a weekend. You leave around seven on Saturday morning and drive to a friend’s house in a different neighborhood. You wait a few hours. You rush back home to find another car parked in your spot, a car that you don’t recognize. Your hand trembles as you reach for the door

knob. You quietly open the front door of your home and see the trail of clothes. It begins with a nice, sheer button- down top. Then, black Prada heels. Oh… there’s his belt. And his shirt that you had ironed for him just before you left. The feeling in your stomach is immense. You follow the trail of clothes to your room…. There they are. Everything goes still. Your husband is in bed with some woman you have never seen. The burning feeling in your stomach is red. The betrayal by your husband is red. You lose it. You begin throwing

things as he tries to calm you down and convince you that “it’s not what it looks like.” Your rage is blinding. You can’t think straight as you head to the kitchen and reach into the drawer then storm back to your bedroom. It all happens so fast. You don’t have time to think between the yells for help and your wild movements. This goes on for what seems like a century. Then it all goes still. The liquid on your hands is red.

MICHAEL SERINE

Sunday Afternoon HANNAH JOHNSON

Suzie and Jeff were nonchalantly cruising down old back roads one Sunday afternoon. The sun shone through the windshield, illuminating their faces and warming to their cheeks. It was autumn, the red leaves were falling. The wind was crisp. The trees swayed. Suzie and Jack weren't headed to anywhere specific. They appreciated each other's company so much that plans and destinations didn't matter. They went wherever they pleased, whenever they pleased. Jack drove with one hand on the steering wheel, the other on Suzie's thigh. Suzie had her legs crossed, clutching the side handle and his hand. Suzie asked Jack what he was thinking about. He didn't answer. She could tell was in deep thought, and she was concerned, but not enough to actually have a full blown conversation about his problems. His mind was turning 180 inside and didn't hear a word she had said. Suzie waited a while and gave his hand a little squeeze. Jack looked over at her for a moment to fake a smile. He turned his gaze back to the road. He was avoiding the conversation, and it upset her. She pushed his hand from her thigh and shifted her hips to the opposite side of the leather seat. This had no effect on him. She scoffed, cleared her throat, tapped on the door impatiently, but none of these things got his attention.

The longer she waited, the more upset she got, when finally she blew. Suzie lost control, she kicked and screamed and yelled until her throat was sore. Jack was exasperated. He slammed on the breaks and swerved to the road side. Suzie sniffled. Jack’s expression was lucid. Suzie wanted to go home. He had somehow emotionally rampaged her to the point where she didn’t want to be near him anymore. She tried the door but it was locked. Jack realized she was trying to leave and grabbed her by the wrist so she couldn't get out. Suzie screamed she wanted out of the car. He refused to let go of her. She kicked and scratched but nothing could release his grasp. Jack took all the kicks and punches but he refused to let go. No matter how hard she tried, what she said or did, he would not release his grip. After Suzie realized he was not going to let go, she calmed down. Jack rolled the window down to get some fresh air. They sat in silence on the side of a country back road on a cool autumn day.

MICHAEL SERINE

Trust

KELSIE ALLEN

Trust isn't simply the ability to count on someone. It's the ability to feel peace with someone. Trust is one of the hardest things to keep my hands on. Trust is a delicate gift, one not carelessly discarded. Trust is like glass; when broken, it shatters into pieces. You to spend days trying to avoid the fragments, only to watch as they travel further and further into your flesh. Blood flows instantly. Trust binds everything together, especially relationships. Trust forms the roots that grow at the start of a relationship. The moment you open your eyes, trust exists. Without it, you're like a fish out of water, a violin without a bow, a book without bindings. In the same way that trust goes hand-inhand with love, trust lies in the same bed as fear. Even when you know that you can trust

somebody, you fear they will betray you and ruin all love and trust you had in them. You fear that you can never trust again because one person took you for granted. Though trust is easily placed with people you care about, you must also place trust in people you do not know all that well. You must trust those people you will either fall or fly with, those who will help you through life: teachers, doctors, acquaintances, and administrators. I struggle with trust more often than not. Over the years, I have become very cautious when it comes to trust, partially due to past betrayals. Mainly, though, I struggle with trust because as a child, I learned to suspect others. I have had to relearn how to live cautiously without avoiding relationships altogether. Trust isn't to be messed with. Trust is a gift, not to be taken for granted. Enjoy it. â&#x20AC;&#x192;

Four Walls

MICHAEL SERINE

I step out of my room and into the den, where in the past we laughed as children. My mother sits in the chair facing the wall; hollow, devoid of purpose. She sits trying to unlock the mysteries of the paint that covers the walls as if it's the last noble thing she can do with her life. The shell sitting in the corner is a breathing, beating memory of my childhood. We used to walk in the rain making boats of cut grass. The blades that trimmed the grass meant no harm, but harmed anyway. At night, we read books together. I loved her melodic voice as she said, "I love you." I leave the house to go to my favorite escape: the local coffee shop. At Grassroots, you can get a cup of coffee for two dollars, cheap (I've spent most of my money on groceries). I'm drawn to Grassroots for its coffee and

warmth. It's winter now and the house is nothing but four cold walls. Our breath shows in the morning light. I come home after a day of escape to a house unchanged. Nothing has moved, not even the shell I've named, "Mom". No matter what I say, she remains in the cold slumber that imprisons her heart. My room is my only nearby sanctuary, filled with a lifetime of joyful memories that taunt me now. They call out to me clearly, saying, "Michael! When will you watch the sun rise with us? When will you bathe in light?" They mock me with every turn of my head, every glance in the mirror, every beat of my heart. I defy them. A whole day has passed, nothing has happened. My mother's shell sits in the corner, and I'm still as cold as the rock in my chest, but I have survived. I lay my head down on the cold pillow of the bed where she read me stories, and a tear treads the soft landscape of my cheek. â&#x20AC;&#x192;

I Hear My Family Singing KENNEDY BOWDRY

I hear my family singing tunes from all eras. Each one singing as they should: nice and strong. Grandmother sings gospel as she cooks and cleans in the kitchen. Mother sings soul as she prepares to head to work, while Grandfather hums an old tune from the 50s as he mows the lawn. Father sings a little Marvin Gaye as he rides out of town with friends. Sister works on a project, singing. Auntie sings while playing the piano. Now the vivacious singing of my cousin, and of the young woman at the school-house, and of the boy putting a puzzle together. All sing what belongs to them and nobody else, with wide mouths and harmony fierce and beautiful. â&#x20AC;&#x192;

Carpe Diem BRYAN SAMUEL

There's a funk band in his mouth. When he speaks, his tongue twirls, spins hypnotically around and around. He struggles to seduce the groovy gurus on the street corner as if he was tryin’ to gargle stars. He says to them, “Seize the day!” and they reply, “Boy you ain’t never lied.” Yet the birds look to the heavens wishing they could fly. Again he says to them, “Carpe Diem!” and they reply, “Your words reek of gasoline.” Soon they will walk in the web they weave. Only when they are slumped with silver strings will they look at their chest and see a rotted ruby lying there. Unused and broken. True hell is not realizing that your band is out of tune or that your ruby is gone, but that you could have flown along.

Let Me Out

MACKENZIE MOBLEY

Red is the color of a tomato, or the face of someone very angry. The car we rode in was red, extremely so. The woman beside me was older than I first imagined. She was beautiful for her age, towering and slim. We looked so similar, it must have been obvious that we were related. She looked over at me and smiled nicely; I had seen that smile a million times, over and over again in my head as I reflected on my childhood. Was this real? Was I actually seeing this same exact smile that I had not seen for so long? "What color are your nails?" she asked. "Black." She gave me a look of disappointment that I remembered all too well. "Disappointing you already?" I asked. She shrugged and kept her eyes on the road. From this interaction, I was already boiling with rage. My face became as red as the ugly car we rode in. I could not stand my sister, which caused the many years since her last visit. Even when I was little we never got along. Now, with me 16 and her 36, we had grown even farther apart. She began talking again, and I tried to ignore her but it was hard when she was so persistent, trying to make me answer her every question. She wanted know if I was following in her footsteps and participating in dance classes. I answered yes and told her I did not dance because of her.

She laughed and said that it was good that I did not dance because of her. She continued, explaining she would hate to see me feel let down because I could never be as great as she. My rage reached an all-time high. I needed to get out of that car. I knew that if I did not get out of the car soon I would explode. She continued on for about half an hour, comparing the two of us and making me angrier and angrier. Finally when we stopped at a red light I opened my door and got out of the car and never looked back. â&#x20AC;&#x192;

PPACTRIK

“The surface of revolution generated when an upward-opening catenary is revolved around the horizontal axis is called a catenoid.”

Encyclopædia Britannica

She is a Rainbow, Bold as Love JAYM DENSING

inspired by jimi hendrix She wears a turquoise sundress, like the sky filled with nimbus above a deep ocean, like oceans. As rain falls from the corners of her eyes, red from passion; a sense of tranquilly overcomes her. She walks under yellow rays of sunshine. She becomes full of green and her small jealousies disappears. A youthful smile, impulsive and burning with an orange flame, like the sun setting, she mellows to a balanced vibrant yellow.

Dreams

ALLISSA MCCOOK

As night falls, I dream of you. The way you smile and look at me. I dream, and I see us in love; the way it was supposed to be. Morning comes, scaring the moon away, taking you with him. I’m left to face the day alone, broken. Now I see you with her, knowing that isn’t how it should be. She’s for you, but it has always been you and me. In my dream I know the truth. One day you will too.

Fire

KIMBERLY BURNS

I want to reverse time, take it back, rewind, press play. But there’s no chance, no way, no one is allowed to restart. As the ambulance pulls out of the driveway I pray. The EMT’s, nurses, and doctors say my brother is alright. He will hurt and it will be the most painful lesson, but he is alive. If he had inhaled and singed his lungs he would have died. “Would have” is the key. I don’t consider treasured moments. Time goes quickly even as the clock’s hands move, slowly, then stop. That day my entire being glimpsed how quickly life can be taken away. It might have only been a bad choice made be-

forehand, a match that only sparked, followed with a little gasoline to help the flame grow. Life stands in front of me as proof. But now it’s a skin graft and a night at the hospital. He’s home on New Year’s Eve all bandaged up, but in good spirits. I am happy he is home safe and on the way to recovery. He has learned many lessons and I have learned to love and cherish the present with the people around me. Because life is extremely fragile and people do not know how much a life is worth until it is gone.

PPACTRIK

On Being a Single Parent TYRONICA McCRAY

You never thought it would happen to you. You always imagined your life, his life and your child’s life “picture perfect” – that you would hold your family together like glue, but that was not the case. That picture perfect life shattered in to a million pieces right before your eyes and just as you thought you could fix it, those little shattered fragments reminded you of every reason it could never work again or why it was not meant to be. Now, your life has done a complete three-sixty minus, and it is time for you to adjust to doing everything you use to do—except alone. But despite the number of diapers you change, and the amount of doctor visits you have to take; it is all done out of love for the one you love most. You have only been reminded that you are a single parent, when your child cries in the middle of the night and you are too tired to get up but then again; who else will do it? You are sleeping alone and your child can not care for herself just yet. Those restful nights turn in to restless nights, which call for more naps during the day, when you should really be studying for an upcoming test. Those restless nights make you depend on too much coffee when you should not have it to begin with; seeing how you breastfeed—even in your sleep. Those drowsy days at work will eventually come to an end, thanks to working with children—they are your alarm clock, very defiant alarm that will give you a million reasons to leave your own child at daycare for an extra two hours while you go home and catch some z’s. It is going to take time for you to adjust to

doing everything by yourself—you are not use to it quite yet because you sit in the break room to this day and mope over how tired you are of having to beg the other parent to do his part when it comes to taking care of your child. You have reminded him constantly that you did not make her alone but then you end up reminding yourself that you are wasting your breath. You can do this. Your child is your motivation, the reason you keep pushing harder. Your child reminds you every day, the reason why you do what you do. Once you and your child are home together, you have to take a deep breath and jot down a list in you head of things to do before you go to bed; prepare supper, iron work clothes, do homework, and encounter those beautiful, non-existing, eight hours of sleep. You have to prepare dinner for you and your child, which may take a while depending on if you forgot to defrost the chicken before you left home this morning, in a rush, due to ten million other things running through your mind, but that is okay because dinner is probably microwavable noodles and Gerber baby food tonight. You have to give your child a warm bath, throw her Mickey Mouse pajamas on, kiss her goodnight and pray she sleeps through the entire night, which by the way, will not happen. Then you have to make the decision of whether to try and take a hot shower without interrupting your child’s sleep or just wait until the morning and deal with an uncomfortable, sleepless night—again. Either way it goes, you have made it through another day and now, you are exactly

where you want to be; lying next to your child in peace. And even when you can have a chance to catch your breath because your friends and family adore your child so much, they agree to keep her but you adore your child even more that you agree to keep your child. Being a parent is a twenty-four hour job but being a single parent is a twenty-four hour job that will turn your hair grey because no matter how close or far apart you and your child are, you will worry like hell and maybe even become a pray warrior —hoping that nothing or anyone harms your child. Those sleepless nights will deepen even more when you find yourself racing out of bed every fifteen minutes to assure yourself that your child is safe and sound. Let’s talk about making sacrifices when it comes to your ill child and going to work in order to keep a room over your child’s head. You have to be strong and open-minded, willing to face any obstacle. Take your child to the doctor, then leave the sitter with specific instructions and then make your way to work to catch what is left of the day. After a long

cold winter, you prayed that March or any other day would not bring you anymore sick days. Despite the everyday struggles of being a single mother, the struggle has built you in to a stronger parent for your child, the struggle has gave you the energy that you lacked from those sleepless nights, to make it through another day and being a single parent has taught you to keep pushing even when it feels like all has failed. You thought life would be “picture-perfect” but then you remembered that life is not perfect. Those shattered fragments reminded you that things may fall apart but if you continue to hold on and keep pushing, then things will come together sooner than you think. You may not have it all, but your child has a roof over her head, clothes on her back, food on the table and somewhere to lay her head every night. And, with a million things to do, you find a way to go to school full time—just to give your child nothing but the best. You can do it—whether being a single parent was by choice or not; you have a little one looking up to you.

Blast From the Past REBEKAH ARWOOD

I saw you today. Glanced up and there you were on the other side of the glass, the embodiment of phantom hopes and wistful dreams. The moment hung suspended in time as my mind struggled to catch up to reality. I’ve seen you so many times in my sleep, become so used to nighttime meetings, that seeing you in the full light of day felt surreal. And yet there you were. No dream walker, no figment of my starving imagination, but flesh and blood. How bizarre it is to be confronted with the physical manifestation of the past. My years, precious few as they are, have never provided such a jarring juxtaposition before. You belong to a bygone season, a brief and precious time that was mourned and celebrated and ultimately buried. How is it then, that you rose from the grave, memories and déjà vu’s coming loose in earthy showers, and followed me into the present? I completed the cycle months ago. Became every cliché. I ran the loops from blind hope to fevered desperation. Tumbled headlong into seething hurt and wondered how I got there. The un-merry-go-round encompassed my world. I celebrated the day that the ground became solid underneath my feet again. I was little scared, a little scarred, a little wiser and stronger. Even so, your face made me quake for the briefest moment in time. In that breath my world paused on its axis as I discovered whether or not you still have the power to shake me. I can never fully erase the handprints you left behind, little grooves and whorls made up of music and stolen moments and a youthful expectancy. These will always be a small part of me. I can no more rid myself of them than I could cut off my own limbs. Truth be told, I wouldn’t even want to. I’ve gleaned what is mine from what was ours and find myself enriched by

the kaleidoscope of hope and pain. I’ve forged ahead, broken through the limitations internally imposed and externally supported, and outgrown my younger self. I won’t be going back. No specter, no wistful memory, no invader from the past can rewind me to that former state of being. I can only be reminded of who I have been and who I have become. I suppose I should thank you. Such a grand catalyst for self-discovery and personal growth you have been. I would never have gotten here without you. Here I am. There you are. There is no spark of life left in the frayed ends of our broken connection. Only the memory of a tentative and hopeful flicker. The chasm between us is cluttered with false starts and abrupt ends; a monument to failed love and best efforts. Yes, I saw you today. A pause, two painful thuds, and I looked away unharmed. You didn’t see me. But then again, you never really did, did you?

ARCHER MCNEILL

Twelve

SAVANNAH LUCKEY

The unexpected news took the whole town by shock. Word travelled quickly, and no one could believe that poor little Ida, only three, was dead. The cause of death was never discovered, and rumors spread quickly about the incident. Only two people know the truth of the matter. My mother is dead, and I can finally tell what happened that night. I remember it vividly. Mom had been acting strange for weeks, barely talking and muttering incoherently. Mom would sit and stare at walls for hours on end. Sometimes she would stare at Ida. The day before Ida died, Mom spent the whole day glaring at her with hatred and disgust. When darkness came, I put Ida to bed. It took everything in me to leave her room. Ida wouldn't let me go, she kept pleading for me to stay with her. This wasn't the first time Ida had acted this way, and Mom hadn't hurt her in the past, so I convinced myself that Ida would be fine. I knew I had been horribly wrong when I awoke in the middle of the night to Ida's desperate scream. I ran to Ida's room to find Mom holding my sister against the wall, strong hands tight around a slender neck. Raw fear shone in Ida's eyes as her face turned blue in the dim lamplight emanating from the hall. I grabbed the closest object, I can't remember what, and hit my mother's skull as hard as I could. Mom dropped Ida, stunned, before recovering and launching herself back at my baby sister. Mom paid me no mind as she rushed by, but I saw her eyes. They were black. My mother wore the face of death. I lunged at Mom's back as she neared Ida. Before I could reach her, something grabbed me and slung me to the ground, knocking the air out of my lungs. Something unseen pinned my arms, held me down, I couldn't

move. The invisible being forcefully turned my head in the direction of my mother and sister, giving me a clear view of the scene that would never stop haunting my nightmares. Ida cowered in a corner, screaming impossibly loudly. Mom stood over Ida, a smile splitting her face as if savoring Ida's terror. Mom moved quickly. In one swift motion, she reached forward and snapped Ida's neck. Silence filled the room. I couldn't speak, couldn't scream. I couldn't understand what had just happened. Ida's body slumped to the floor and Mom grabbed my sister's arms, dragging her like so much flour to another room. I don't know what happened after that. Everything went black, and silent. I woke up cold the next morning on the rough floor of Ida's room. I couldn't make sense of what I remembered from the night before. From outside the house, I heard familiar deep voices talking quietly. Suddenly urgent, desperate, I scrambled to my feet and ran out the front door to find the police chief with his officers. I ran to him, grabbing his coat and spitting out frenzied words, trying to tell them that she was dead! Ida was dead! Tears flooded my eyes and I felt warm arms wrap around me. My mother's arms. I choked, screamed breathlessly, fought to get away, but the officers helped the woman restrain me and drag me, sobbing, to my room. I found out later that they had found my sister's body that night front of the old church, laid tenderly in a circle of bright red petunias. The number twelve had been carved all over Ida's arms, legs, and torso. Ida wasn't the first to be tortured this

LUCKEY

way. The victims before my sister had different numbers engraved in their flesh, in descending order from eleven. When the police found no evidence of my mother's guilt, I was admitted to a psychiatric hospital. It was assumed that when I heard the news of Ida's death, I lost my mind. I had created

lies to blame my mother, my story was fake. Only the bruises on my body from where invisible hands held me down keep me from believing them.

ARCHER MCNEILL

A Desperate Chase of Rows BENJAMIN ASHLEY GARDNER

Haze hounds bay For the arisen and for This day’s dimpled dew Grass. Above the ground Cobalt light assemblies Mark the passage of fog around Through the jars in the kitchen. Above my sink good kiln soldiers Await orders, never mind the weak Stream of our well’s water. Between plasters of thick stains Sunlight dabs at the panes, Revealing my neighbor’s hounds Padding past, hunting for vermin in the corn. Tassels reveal high disturbance in the rows Beneath my vista, signs of dash and dodge Wriggle bowed leaves. Hodge-to-podge The contest flares, visceral, a desperate chase Is on. Dirt pelts as if from paws scratching, I track the vigorous chess. Stalks impede Shoulders, where pheromones panic, revealing Sightlines of scents heralded by the barking, Advantage Goes to the hounds. I keep my backdoor Closed to an inevitable rending And those crazed cur eyes when they chew. My cobalt sentries at the window Can witness the kill without Me and assess any damages.

Savior

ASHLEY MEYER

The silence in her head becomes overbearing; the screams inside, unleashed, real. She contemplates peace for months without finding it. Gashes, cuts, screams, cries no one hears. She looks for comfort in other people until they leave. She stays up late thinking why does this happen? Her thoughts at 2 AM are dangerous. Years go by with her shrieking condition. Voices live. Enough is enough. I can’t take it anymore! no one hears a word. She wakes on July 20th, 1999, and enjoys her last meal. She goes to her room, closes the door slowly. For over an hour she stares and cries, holding her catalyst, savior. Not once does she change her mind. Ninety minutes pass, she realizes it is time. She holds the gun to her head and says goodbye to the ghosts. She’s gone, relieved. The voices in her head have stopped for the first time in twenty-six years.

Remnant

EDWARD FREEMAN

It sat in the kitchen. The rectangular object boasted an array of vibrant colors: red, green, yellow, and lots of blue. The box sat up high in a dark, closed-off cabinet. No light could enter until the cabinet was opened. Was it possible for a box to feel human emotions such as loneliness, since it had no one to interact with it? The black cabinet starkly contrasted the golden kitchen. The large kitchen had one person to call it home. A man, who was once married with children, but in old age lived alone in an empty house. Once, the kitchen was full of love. A husband and wife, madly in love, would cook together. They created delicious meals brought the family together in a spirit of close kinship that only comes with good food. As years went by, more kids ran throughout the kitchen, creating an atmosphere of chaos and laughter. The bright kitchen remained the heart of the family even after the children graduated high school and left for college. The warm evening meals continued, and the love between the middle-aged couple became even stronger. Their family began to have families of their own, and the kids would come to see Grandpa and Grandma. The bright light of their love dimmed as sickness consumed the wife. Funeral arrangements were made. The widow isolated himself from the world, and he became bitter, and old. He only loved one thing, and that was his kitchen. The kitchen gave him memories of the love that was once there. Every morning, the kitchen would come alive. The object in the cabinet screamed, “Open

me!” or “Use me!” The object longed for the attention that it had previously had, and the old man gave it the attention it needed to be satisfied. After all, the object has been his favorite. After the old man was done playing with it, he placed the object gently in the small black cabinet, as he did every day. Then he slowly walked to the mailbox like a turtle venturing out of its shell. The old man anxiously waved to his neighbors, and then turned to wave to the young boy who reminded him so much of himself in his youth. In the evening, he watched the sunset, and then returned to his small room of white walls. He slept for the majority of the night. A deafening silence filled the house. Muffled screams for help came from the cabinet. No one could hear the object screaming, “HELP!" It longed for the attention of the lonely old man. The sun rose to shine a bright light in the kitchen, and the sounds of morning caused the dormant house to awaken. Birds began to chirp and sing their morning songs, as the grass glistened in its dew. The old man rose energetically and made his way to the kitchen. The cabinet began to ramble with chatter. As the old man opened the cabinet, the object screamed, “Good morning!” Could it be possible that the object had the feelings that human beings have? Even though the object was his box of Cheerios, it wanted to be nurtured just as humans want to be loved and have someone to talk every day. Cheerios are good for a heart, and the old man wanted to feel love.

Walk with the Elephants MARIA STUDEBAKER-COPPAGE

Gray I stand in the bush, hidden by blades of grass, tall, bending in the savannah winds. Thud goes my footsteps, grand, large, round imprinting, leaving a mark wherever I go. Flap, flap both ears listening, fanning my head to keep the African heat at bay. Gray I stand in the bush, hidden by blades of grass tall, bending in the savannah winds.

MARIA STUDEBAKER-COPPAGE

Foundation

DREW EVERETT

Wandering in darkness, time and time again. Waiting for the time, or certainty to begin. Waiting for levity to come from the unknown. Concerning the means of being sane: look yonder way, away from thee. Walk near, ignore what you see. Arm of time, bent by ghost, eye of soul, owned by host. Every emotion becoming glossed. The clock and the eye, lost.

The Rose Garden DREW EVERETT

In loving memory of my grandfather, Delouise Elbert Hurst Sr.

Watching over my rose bush, now we roam my garden. Through the sunflowers we push, and Mr. Lincoln brings me home. My roses bloom, creating a vibrant dome. Like an unseen midnight theft, my garden begins to cave. The only flowers left are the ones above my grave.

JARED WARMACK

Confrontation HANNAH LANGE

Outside dark windows, obscure birds trail behind a moving car, struggling to fly against the gusts of wind. Clutching the steering wheel, a pale woman with crow’s feet bordering her piercing eyes switches in and out of lanes without hesitation. Her mouth lies flat and her eyes darken as she tenses. Next to her sits a younger girl, with the same features and emotions displayed. The girl crosses her arms and rolls her eyes as she releases a shrill scream. She falls silent, faces the dim window and stares out, never moving a centimeter. Harsh shrieks from the older woman stumble over the ear-bursting drum beats and screams of the music. Dark clouds roll past and bits of fog consume the view staring back at those piercing eyes. After the shrieks and screams, dead silence creeps as the girl’s posture remains stiff and unmoving. The older woman glares at the younger

one, but the girl’s body angles away, towards the door. Regardless of noise or silence, the girl refuses to look anywhere else. Her blank expression and tense muscles remain no matter how many scathing words come from the older woman. On the black, jagged road a blur of deep red mixed with limp shreds of brown appears. A stench overwhelms the two travelers. The car swiftly turns onto a new road going a different direction. Outside the dark clouds give way to the bright sun, which breathes life into the flowers along the road. The girl’s eyes brighten and she almost begins to relax. She still leans her body towards the door. The car pulls into a grand, welcoming parking lot. The young girl in her white shirt and the older woman with the warm blue eyes both get out of the car, and at last there is joy.

“...Galileo incorrectly believed that a hanging chain would take the shape of a parabola. It was later in the 17th century that the Dutch mathematician Christiaan Huygens showed that the chain curve cannot be given by an algebraic equation (one involving only arithmetic operations together with powers and roots); he also coined the term catenary.”

Encyclopædia Britannica

Passionless Pursuits

SAMANTHA ROSE ARWOOD

Passionless pursuits fill our days. Behind the haze we laze and stay because our day just may be filled with people who say we aren't good enough. We should try find our peace of mind but peace takes time and we feel left behind and left out of what makes life worth living and love worth giving. We're blind. We need forgiveness, I mean business, and greed is with us for a while. And we while away the hours with a smile at those who tower above us threatening to shower us with undeserved curses and rehearsed verses that tell us over and over again we aren't enough. We aren't worth the earth we walk on or the songs we sing in our head before we sleep as we lay in our beds. As we lay down our head, belief replaced dread, and so much went unsaid but much more was screamed. Screamed as we dreamed of a better place (or so it seemed) but the shadows and darkness teemed right behind our own eyes as we deemed others unworthy. To our surprise, we become the ones spouting lies and causing the cries of the lonely, as each tear dries we ask ourselves why? Then we wake up but we are less blinded, we've become open minded, still looking for a sign that love can be ours and we're holding back on cutting our lifeline because the end is so near and we know life is so dear but the fear is what keeps us alive. So we'll struggle and strive and sometimes connive but it's better than easily grabbing the knife that's under your pillow (don't cry, weeping willow), for tomor-

row the rain will wash away all your pain. Your eyes will strain and your neck may crane and you'll grow in some ways but you'll still be the same as you were when you pulled yourself through, you can just count on you and you'll know what to do. Be sure to stay strong, you've been holding on for so very long that you feel like you just might let go. You're looking below but just so you know, I'll grab your hand and make sure you land safe and sound, standing on your own feet on the solid ground where earth and sky meet. We'll say we're okay and you'll live another day where the skies might get grey and clouds don't go away but your colors won't fade in every shade and the tears that you've made no longer delayed will roll down your cheeks and off of your face. The music will play at the end of the day and you thought you wouldn't survive through the fray. And my dear, I won't stray because I'm here to stay. â&#x20AC;&#x192;

Three a.m.

SAMANTHA ROSE ARWOOD

Taking a shower at three in the morning, when dreaming gets boring and drowning is fine. Feeling is breaking and lives are worth taking when darkness is bringing you thoughts like mine. Bathing in thoughts that were not worth thinking, when battling sinking fails, drowning is fine. Because drowning is numb and water is cold, but emptier still is the make of the mold. We try to fit boxes, when we love open air. We're asking the question, "Is anyone there?" But we’re shouting so that no one can hear. It doesn't matter if it’s far or near. So we tell ourselves that we're alone and unwanted, but it leaves us so empty, feeling blank and haunted. We try to feel our way around, I'll look up instead of down. I know a hard road lies ahead, but I'm willing to brave it with a heart of lead. My feet are like stone but when I stop, I stand. I turn to sand and not to rock, so on I go 'til my journey’s end. I will press on 'til this battle is won. And I'll take you with me, you wonderous thing. We're not turning back, hanging on by a string. You ponderous creature, I love you, don't forget. But now I'm convinced, I've not met you yet.

ARCHER MCNEILL

Running Away

SAMANTHA ROSE ARWOOD

Throw me out to the wild to a world of monsters and men. A week down there and I'm sure that I'll be running home again. I promise that I won't leave early as my wanderlust starts to set in. For nightmares linger there and say it's too soon to begin. The smoke is floating above me but it's not from my own lips. From someone's lungs it escapes as it runs, it falls, and it trips. For it doesn't look where it's running, after all, it doesn't have eyes. But this cloud of smoke is my friend. Clouds of smoke tell stories, not lies. I remember that once I did leave, leaving family and shelter behind. I ran away that distant day and I swear that I ran as I cried. I'm sorry I ran in the first place. I was young and very misled. I thought adventure would follow me but I had nowhere to rest my head. I guess that it taught me a lesson, a lesson to last for my life. Adventures that last in the daytime are worse than those at night. For you have no stars to guide you, no second star then straight on til day. So next time the feeling strikes me, at night, only then will I run away. â&#x20AC;&#x192;

EMILY ARWOOD

Coast

DEVIN ALLEN

There's nothing more calming than the crisp breeze brought in by ocean waves, or the roar of waves crashing. Blazing above, the sun gives off heat so fierce you feel as though the world could explode at any moment. Sand underneath your feet grabs at your heels; you sink further and further with every step. The bitter salt of ocean water stings and burns faces on the beach. These sensations remind you of summer break after freshman year. Laughter fills my head, fills me with joy. The rough surface of the beach slides beneath my feet and between my toes as I run down the beach. One cannot feel this joy all day, every day. â&#x20AC;&#x192;

Joni Mitchell

HUNTER MCLENDON

I listen to Joni Mitchell in the dark, cigarette burning flecked orange scorches the blackness. Atom bomb explodes, rippling through the air as I exhale. Slowly. Momma doesn’t know I smoke, soft pack dig in my side while I listen to Joni Mitchell. She give my soul conversation; it don’t get much talking to. Moonlight come in solitary, lonely. It sneaks in every night like my sweet white man kisses my cheeks while I listen to Joni Mitchell, smoke rising above me.

Dream: Stabbed at a Movie Theater TABETHA BROOKS

Pizza: item used to stab people Coca-Cola: gushes out of stab wounds Car: the seats Phone: room where people could urinate etc. Popcorn: people escaped in TV: cup holders in the theater Hair: went into the cup holders so people could drink it Life: what we put on our feet to stay warm Love: death after too much stabbing, too much Coca-Cola loss Nothing: what we wore â&#x20AC;&#x192;

JARED WARMACK

Dream Definitions ARIANNA KIMBLER

Flower: n.) The majestic hair that composes man-buns. Chartreuse: n.) The amount of sriracha sauce that man with man-buns put on just about every damn thing. Perfect: v. ) The action of standing in front of a fan and closing your eyes, spreading your arms out wide like Rose on the Titanic and pretending that you aren’t dead inside because you just cut your hair and your man-bun is too small. Ravenclaw: adj.) Describing one’s lack of man-bun; an insult. Poems: v.) The action of calling one out due to the near baldness on one’s head, making him man-bunless. Lovely: n.) What one man-bunner tells another about the ‘dankness’ of his man bun. Aesthetic: n.) The nightmares man-bunners have about someone cutting their bun off. Macho: v.) When a man-bun falls out and a moment of silence is given for the death of perfection. Cigarette: adj.) Describing one’s man-bun in an appreciative manner. Earlobe: adj.) Describing the collection glasses, beards, and Ray Ban glasses that man-bunners own.

Brothers

DEVIN SPENCER

My brother is boiling mad. An accident happened in the night, he says. The air tastes like fear and must. “Devin Lamar Spencer,” my brother says. “Come to the house,” loudly. He could have said it softly. With a quick stride, the hunt is on, and I am the prey. Dang! “Where are you?” A shot fires with no target. Boy, you better come with lightning on your heel. Soaring trees of reflection stand in an unexpected silence. I sit behind a barricade, free from his rage. He teleports into my refuge and I ask myself, “Can you do that?” Dev would have died. To be hunted forever, never at peace-I am trapped in this never-ending hunt.

Adolph Turk BRENT BURDICK

Adolph Turk was a quiet man. Indeed, Turk never talked in public unless absolutely necessary. Every weekday he went to work, driving a small, beat-up car, and every evening he would come home to his family. Turk was never home on the weekends. At 7 o’ clock sharp, Turk leaves his house for work. At 6 o’ clock, Turk pulls back into his driveway. Turk’s roof drooped in one corner, and the grass always went just a little too long between mowing. The house was in sore need of a paint job, and at least two windows were visibly cracked. By all accounts, Turk was a simple man. His weekend visits, however, were shrouded in mystery. Where did he go? Turk’s family could be seen in grocery stores and in their yard on weekends, but Turk was always absent, his car gone. When Turk died, he was buried in Whigham, Georgia. He lived in Tallahassee, Florida. What kept him away all those weekends? A mistress? A secret job? Adolph Turk was a mysterious man.

Gumption

ANONYMOUS

When she was a child, Samantha Barnes had no idea that she would save a life. Twenty years later, however, ghosts still weighed her heavily on her mind. She woke early, gently nudged from sleep by her alarm; gentle vibrations held tight to her chest by her night shirt pocket. She slept lightly, fluidly waking to begin her morning routine. This morning was no different than all the others. Samantha rose and dragged herself into the bathroom, where she stripped and started the shower. Samantha looked into the mirror and teared up momentarily. Scars lying near her collarbones shone bright, amplified by the fluorescent light emitting from the long, humming tubes above her. Samantha was only a child when it happened, so she could never truly shake the damage it had done to her. The physical damage was nothing compared to what it had done to her emotionally, but seeing the scars often brought her to the edge. Samantha tried to be strong, but sometimes it was all too much. She pushed on through her days, using each second to the fullest, because she knew it might be her last. Samantha knew she had a bit of gumption, which was more than most could say. Steam poured out of the bathroom like a thick blanket as Samantha showered, filling her small apartment. Afterwards, she seemingly floated on the steam-cloud to the kitchen, where she brewed a pot of coffee. Samantha always gained some small amount of calm from coffee, not only from drinking it, but from watching it come together like a witch's potion. Her cauldron was a piece of hand blown glass in the shape of an hourglass, allowing a filter and coffee grinds to sit in the top. Samantha poured two cups worth of boiling water into the pot,

watched it drip for a moment, then opened the refrigerator and pulled out two eggs. She cracked them into a bowl and added cream, hot sauce and salt. Samantha whisked the mixture for almost five minutes while her pan heated. Pouring it in slowly, Samantha cooked her breakfast and sipped her coffee. This was her ritual. Every day she woke, showered and brewed two cups of coffee, and ate two eggs. Samantha arrived at work 15 minutes early and punched the clock. She always had a good sense of time, even before it all happened. Samantha's father taught her to rise early, eat breakfast, and show up early. He taught her how to be a strong woman, even before she was a teenager. It almost killed her when he died, but she kept pushing through. Samantha had been through worse, and it could only get better. She was brave because she had to be; she was strong because others needed her to be. Samantha had the initiative, she had the drive, she knew the consequences and the sacrifice but she did it anyway. She strapped on her duty belt, loaded her weapons, and got ready to start her patrols. Around noon, dispatch came over the radio with a frantic 10-00: officer down three blocks away. Samantha flipped on the sirens and responded to the scene. Two units were engaging a group of suspects 30 meters away, backed into a dead end alley. One officer was slumped against the patrol car, with three red stains showing through his shirt in a tight cluster above his heart. Bullets sped by as she calmly walked past the down officer to the remaining units. Three officers were huddled behind another patrol car riddled with bullet holes. Samantha spoke calmly and clearly, directing the officers to cease fire. The roar of gunshots died away,

replaced with an occasional pop from the end of the alley. Samantha walked to the back of her car, and pulled the police model Colt rifle from the trunk. She loaded it, slapping the side of the receiver, closing the bolt with a loud metallic clank. As she returned to the frightened officers, Samantha turned and walked straight past the car, rifle still slung across her chest. She walked down the alley, and flipped the safety on her rifle to â&#x20AC;&#x153;FIRE.â&#x20AC;? Samantha was terrified, walking down the alley now, just like so many years ago.

Samantha rounded the corner of a dumpster, and found three young men, shaking in their boots, terrified of what might become of them. Samantha raised her rifle with no intent of firing, but the look in her eyes scared the young men into submission. As they walked back to the patrol car, Samantha stopped and finally let it all out. All of the facades, all of the years slipped away as she fell to her knees and finally knew what it meant to be truly brave. â&#x20AC;&#x192;

Jefferson National Expansion Memorial, 1975, www.nps.gov

“An inverted hanging cable provides the shape for a stable self-standing arch...”

Encyclopædia Britannica

MICHAEL SERINE

Little Boy Gone JASMINE ADAMS

Beaten and battered, paranoid, scared; when will you strike next? I hate not knowing. I should be able to trust you. Fragile, I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stand or fight. I know what to expect. I will run far away, terror spurring me on.

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Flickers

AMANDA COTHERN

death is the only certain thing in this world the pain fear happiness joy sorrow all gone, lost in the waves of time never forgiven always forgotten the void the darkness a glimmer of light in the night a saving grace a grand release paradise hell purgatory earth repeat a gun a knife an accident infinite deaths repeat â&#x20AC;&#x192;

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Nine Days: The Girl with the Plague HANNAH LINDQUIST

Nine: Midday as a prologue (8/10/15) 12 p.m. I rolled out of bed and felt sleep trying to pull me back in. I’m not one to sleep in that late generally. I felt like I hadn’t slept at all. But, at the same point, it didn’t seem too abnormal. After all, this was my second day back after our trip to Yosemite, a three-hour time difference, not to mention that the trip—though amazing—had been exhausting. The day before I had had a several hour rehearsal for Into the Woods (I was set to play Cinderella). Lydia and I were set to hang out most of the week and had a pretty full schedule of finding the last things I needed for my dorm, packing up my room, and possibly repainting my walls (currently I have several different samples on the walls). I was set to move in that Friday. Sophomore year was set to start in a week. The hours passed very slowly that day. Something wasn’t right. I didn’t feel right. It was like I was only half of myself, maybe less. Eight: From doctor to doctor (8/11/15) This time I didn’t just feel like I hadn’t slept the night before, I really hadn’t slept more than a couple hours. My mind had been racing. My body desperately needed rest, but my mind was screaming that I didn’t. The list of everything I needed to get done, from life goals to more minor (but important) things rolled like the credits after a film that signify the end. And, all I could think about was how little I’d accomplished so far. I told myself that from now on I was going to be more intentional, more productive, and less apathetic. All of these thoughts were odd.

Yes, we all need to be more intentional, and productive, and be less apathetic, but I didn’t generally have a problem with these things. Today was an earlier morning than usual. I was shadowing a doctor for a few hours. I got ready—looked in the mirror and knew that somewhere there was a major disconnect. The girl who was looking back at me in the mirror looked completely normal and put together, not even a little tired. But, the girl who I was in that moment didn’t feel very normal. I got to the doctors office, and the shadowing was amazing. I thoroughly enjoyed it. But I started to get even more tired, and adding to that— dizzy. I was tired though, so dizzy wasn’t too strange. Nothing was too strange. I went home before lunch and started combining ingredients in the crockpot for some soup that I was making ahead to freeze for healthy quick meals at college. When I first felt the pain under my left arm, I was chopping sweet potatoes for the soup. It was around 12 p.m., and this time, midday was marking the beginning. Lydia had just taught me how to crotchet, we were going to start making scarves for our Etsy shop, and we spent a little while taking pictures of the ones she had made. From the pictures you’d think it was any other normal day. We then left the house to go to thrift store shopping. The dizziness was getting worse, and so we went to get some lunch at Chick-fil-a. I thought maybe my blood sugar was low. At this point my arm was hurting so badly that when driving, I had to prop it up. I thought I was tired and that I had lain on my arm funny the night before.

105 But, no, that wasn’t at all what was happening. There was a disease inside of me. Beneath the barrier of skin and face, beyond sleep deprivation and the stress of life was a disease. A disease that would have gone undetected until it was too late. A disease that would have killed me had not God, in His sovereignty, saved me from a dark death. We went home after that late lunch. I needed to unpack my bags from Yosemite. I needed to make sure that I had all the things I needed for Friday. I needed to check on my soup. The semester was going to be busy, very busy. I was taking chemistry, genetics, sociology, and a perspectives course that happened to be on literature (I was quite stoked about that). In addition to school, I was in the play mentioned above. Opening night was September 11th, and we were exactly a month away. It was crunch time, and practice was only going to get more intense. The pain under my arm, rather than diminishing, was getting more severe. I was getting so cold, so very cold. I wanted to try to get some things done. Lydia said I should lie down and text mom about how I was feeling. I said I was fine or that I would be in a little while, but I laid down all the same and she went to go work on stuff for our blog. How I remember it, I texted her shortly for a blanket. Not a blanket from a different room, the blanket that was on the foot of my bed. I couldn’t get warm, but I didn’t have the energy to move to get my blanket. Then, the pain starting radiating into my chest, back, and down into my fingertips. That’s when I texted mom. She called almost immediately and asked how severe the pain was. I told her I didn’t know. Pain is hard to measure. She asked if she needed to come straight home. I told her I didn’t know. She asked if I needed to go to the doctor. I told her I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I told her I would call the doctor I had shadowed that morning who happened also to be a family friend. The doctor told me to call my family doctor immediately and let her know what they said. My doctor’s office was closing in less than an hour and they said with pain radiating down into my fingertips and chest on the left side, I should go into the Emergency Room. But I didn’t feel like it was an emergency. I called my friend back and she told me

if I didn’t want to go to the Emergency Room, I could go to Urgent Care. Lydia updated mom with where the doctors said we needed to go. Lydia had to help me get my shoes and my sweater, and she grabbed a blanket for me to take with me. None of this was normal, but somehow in the moment of it all, it didn’t seem abnormal to me. It seemed like I was coming down with the flu or something. When mom got home about twenty minutes later, we went straight to Urgent Care. But, when she walked through the door, she was shocked. I was wrapped in a blanket, I was cold, I was in severe pain that had started to radiate down into my legs, and I was almost in tears. Lydia was talking to my mom about something. And, then within a few minutes, we were leaving. On the way out the door, I called out to my brothers who had just gotten home from class to turn off the crockpot. I didn’t want my soup to burn. I was still in the dress I had worn to shadow that morning, but everything else about me was radically different. Urgent Care was very busy and we had to sit in the waiting room for a while. The pain levels started rising even higher than before and I was crying, leaning on mom’s shoulder. Now it seemed strange, but I thought I was being a baby—despite having a pretty high pain tolerance generally. I told mom I still wanted to go to play practice that night. She said that we’d see. Obviously, there was no way I’d be ready to go in two hours. No, in actuality, I wouldn’t go back there for a week and a half. In between crying about the pain and feeling so strange, I would bring up perfectly normal conversation topics. I remember mentioning something about Lydia’s chemistry book to her, or talking about classes that I was to begin the next week. The nurse called mom and I back and after leading us to a room, she took my vitals. At home, my temperature had been normal. Now I had a low fever of 100.8. We explained my symptoms, the sudden but severe onset of pain that was radiating throughout my body, but which was incredibly strong underneath my left arm. The doctor came in and said that I was going to have some blood work done to test for mono, as well as a flu test and an EKG. The EKG and flu test were normal. I was still crying. The pain would get worse, and then dull down for a little while. The doctor said

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ARCHER McNEILL that he wasn’t sure what it was, but said that the blood work would be back tomorrow and then we might have some answers. He also said that mom could alternate Tylenol and ibuprofen to lower my fever. He said that he wanted to prescribe an antibiotic. That’s when mom mentioned it. A couple days before, her brother had sent her an article about a girl who had caught the Bubonic Plague in Yosemite. We didn’t know that it even existed still before we got the article. She told the doctor that she knew it was incredibly unlikely, but that we were just in Yosemite and that they did just have a case of plague there. The doctor laughed, we all laughed, when do you hear of someone getting the plague? He said that it was very unlikely, but that it exists endemically in the rodent population (squirrels, prairie dogs, and the like) out in the west. Mom asked what that would look like. He told her it would look like my symptoms, but still that it was unlikely. But, he then went on to say that to put us at ease, he would look up an antibiotic that would cover the plague, just in case. I felt hot all of a sudden, so hot. The nurse took my temperature again before we left. It was 103. My fever had risen three degrees in the hour since we had been in the exam room. I also started feeling like I was going to puke.

They wheeled me out to the car. Mom brought us home and I got into bed. She was going to pick up my antibiotic from the pharmacy. Lydia was going to have to go back home. I wasn’t going to go to play practice. And, I was disappointed, because I had plans and now those plans were getting put on hold. I couldn’t see the full picture. I didn’t know what was wrong with me at this point. I just knew that I didn’t feel well, and that that was setting my schedule back. Mom got back from the pharmacy and gave my first dose of Doxycycline and also brought with her from the store ginger ale and Gatorade. I drank a little, but not much. Then, my fever rose to 104. And, a lot of people started praying for me. Mom was still alternating the ibuprofen and Tylenol and eventually my fever came down. I fell into a restless sleep. I’d wake up from time to time in pain, and at one point, drenched in sweat. Because of the pain, I could only sleep on my back (which I never normally do). Seven: The clock struck midnight (8/12/15) The next day I woke up in pain and alternated between sleeping and watching Netflix. Mostly, I would sleep or lay in bed because my eyes had become screen sensitive.

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I didn’t have much of a fever, but the pain in my arm was still there and still severe. In the afternoon, I had a couple of hours where I thought maybe I was getting better. Mom found out that my blood work came back normal. Then, around dinnertime the pain started to get worse than ever. I hadn’t eaten much all day. Nothing had sounded good. I drank enough liquids to stay hydrated. Around 8 pm, I was able to eat some while watching a movie. By the end of the movie, I couldn’t find a position to sit in to get comfortable. So, I decided to go to bed. Mom and dad were discussing whether they should take me to the Emergency Room and mom was texting with dad’s brother who is a doctor to find out what he thought we should do. We had a follow up appointment scheduled with our primary care physician for the next morning. Surely, I could make it through the night until then. After all, I thought it was probably just a weird strand of the flu. I couldn’t sleep. The pressure on my arm and back was too much to lie down and I was trying very hard not to cry. Mom had read more about the plague during the day and found out that the treatment advised by the CDC is IV antibiotics rather than oral. I had every single symptom of the plague. Dad’s brother advised us to go into the ER. He thought it might be West Nile or something like that. So, minutes before midnight, we were checking into the Emergency Room feeling like we might be overreacting and that this all might be nothing. We were called back very soon after walking in (yes, I was able to walk in). They took all my vitals: low fever, moderately low blood pressure, but normal pulse. Mom mentioned that we had just been in Yosemite and that they had had a case of the plague there just last week. They took a few vials of blood, as well as some blood cultures, and ran the tests. I became very thirsty. The poor nurses would run to get me a drink and then another and another. Shortly after the test results came back (the blood cultures would take a couple of days), a Nurse Practitioner came to our room. She said that we were in the right place and that I was very sick. That, although we didn’t know what, my body was fighting a major infection. Apparently, the CRP test had come back as +30. Normal range is between .5-.7 and the scale only goes up to 30. They hooked me up to IV fluids and pain medicine. A doctor came in a few minutes later. She said that they needed to aspirate the lymph node underneath my arm that was causing so

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much pain. In other words, they had to stick a gigantic needle in my armpit and extract lymph fluid. I love science, but that was gross and it hurt like crazy even after they had numbed the area. I don’t know how much time passed before the doctors came back. It may have been thirty minutes or less or more. My blood pressure was dropping and I was starting to feel loopy. They said that when they put the fluid under the microscope they were shocked. They were expecting Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, but they saw Plague. I had the Bubonic Plague (bubo is what they used to call lymph nodes), I had the same disease that killed one out of three Europeans during the dark ages. I had the disease that causes your extremities to turn black with gangrene as it progresses in your bloodstream. At some point, I lost IV #1—which was in my right hand. The nurses came and gave me IV #2 in my left hand. Six: IV #3 and #4 (8/13/15) They put me on more IV antibiotics and more pain medicine. The pain medicine would help for a few minutes and then wear off. They didn’t know if it was in my bloodstream. They said we’d have to wait on the blood cultures for that. But, they said that I had to have an x-ray to check my chest for the pneumonic plague. My blood pressure had dropped to 74/52 and I couldn’t sit up in bed without help. They wheeled me in the hospital bed to the x-ray room. The x-ray, though not indicative of the plague, was also not completely clear. When we took a second x-ray on Friday, we’d see that my lungs were completely clear, and, that like the doctors had suspected, the slight haze was from being in bed for two days. I freaked out at the possibility of it being in my lungs because I thought I had infected everyone. Thankfully this wasn’t the case. Around 12:30 p.m., they moved me to the IMCU. Before this, there had been some talk about me getting moved to a hospital in a bigger city. But after extensive conversations with the CDC, it was determined that I would receive the same care at either place. So, I was to stay. They had an infectious disease doctor on my case and I had seen at least four doctors and countless nurses in

108 the twelve and a half hours I had been in the hospital. Everyone wanted to see what my arm looked like. They wanted to see the girl with the Black Death. The doctors said I had hit the lottery of infectious disease. I had. Normally, there are about five cases of plague a year in the US. I was one out of millions of Americans, three hundred and seventeen million Americans. Somewhere on the trails of Yosemite, likely on Glacier Point, a flea had bitten me. This flea had also bitten an infected rodent that was a carrier of the plague. Thus, the disease was transferred to me. I never knew I was bitten. Isn’t it weird how things happen? The doctors told us that they never would’ve caught it had it not been for my mom mentioning it. Mom never would’ve mentioned it had it not been for that news article her brother sent. The disease was life threatening. There’s only a 50% survival rate without treatment for the Bubonic Plague, and there is a 100% fatality rate if the disease gets into your bloodstream. But, God had orchestrated a chain of events that would identify what was wrong with me and cause the doctors to give me the right antibiotics to save my life. Dad and I thought that I could wait until the follow up appointment with the doctor and never go to the ER. It was mom who pushed for the ER and felt uneasy about waiting. God had caused her to feel uneasy. I was passing through the Valley of the Shadow of Death. IV #2 blew. I didn’t like that. Getting a new IV hurt, but it didn’t hurt as bad as taking the old IV out. And, worse than both was the pain of the antibiotics going into my veins—it burned. This time it wasn’t the floor nurses who gave me the IV—it was the IV team. I have very, very light skin—so light that my veins are very visible and I always assumed that they would have been relatively easy to prick, not so. The veins in my hands do a weird crisscross lattice number that frustrated many a nurse trying to draw blood. I’m not sure how many times they had to prick me to get the new IV to take. I know it was more than once, and it wasn’t any fault of the nurses. My veins didn’t want the IVS. I ended up getting two IVs instead of one, both in the anterior side of my right forearm. I think the thought behind that was that I wouldn’t have to get any more IVs for the rest of my stay. That didn’t happen. The rest of the day passed rather quickly. Mom stayed with me again that night. In the night I woke up several times—sometimes out of pain (the pain was

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continual, but would spike and subsequently fall in severity), sometimes because the nurse or nurse tech would be coming in to check vitals or give me a new bag of antibiotics or pain meds. They drew blood every day at 3 a.m. There was a rough hour or two, but nothing compared to the night before. Five: Simultaneously exhausted and stir-crazy (8/14/15) The doctor came in that morning and said that he was surprised by how well my night had gone. My blood work was fairly normal. He went on to say that the day before, the blood work had shown that my blood clotting factors had dropped significantly—a very concerning result—but today, my blood clotting factors were completely normal. The goodness of God in once again sparing me was overwhelming. It was like He had led me through the parted Red Sea and then, on the other side of it, showed me the true danger of my surroundings. My IVs continued to hurt--sometimes worse than others. But, one of them made it through the day, and I was very grateful for that. They had slowed down the dripping rate of antibiotics significantly. That helped a great deal. My nurses were phenomenal. They were incredibly kind and patient—constantly trying to improve my comfort level and decrease the amount of pain I was in. I was ready to be home and ready to be moving into the dorm. Obviously, my body wasn’t. The doctor said I’d have to wait at least another week to start school, but that I might be out of the hospital by Monday. I was also very ready to see other humans. My parents were the only ones allowed in the room at that point. The hours seemed to go by slowly, but the daylight eventually faded. With the night would come some of the worst pain I have ever experienced. Dad was staying with me that night. The pain in my left arm was only somewhat diminished by the pain meds. My body was starting to ache from not being able to adjust my position. We had positioned pillows to ease this. 3 a.m. and the daily blood draw came around sooner than I would’ve wanted. I had finished my antibiotic bag some time before and they were going to draw blood from the IV. My veins weren’t giving enough to fill the vials. But, just enough blood came through the IV tube that it had to be flushed. Dad held on to my left hand while the nurse flushed the IV with saline—I screamed with tears running down my cheeks. You wouldn’t

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110 think that that would hurt worse than everything else so far, but it did. There were so many different types of pain running through my body at different levels. It was strange, but also very interesting when viewed objectively. I can’t remember where on my arms the nurse was finally able to get blood from. The night passed. Four: People, more IVs, pain to peace (8/15/15) When the doctor came in around ten, he said that I could have visitors. That gave me an adrenaline high the rest of the day. They drew blood for cultures to see if I was plague free—if I passed the 72-hour test, I could go home. Lydia and my sister Grace came to visit late in the afternoon, they were shocked to see me walking around. At the end of the day, I got moved out of IMCU. At some point during the day they gave me IV #5—this time it was a neonatal needle. The small size of the needle in a larger vein meant that there would be a larger blood to medicine ratio—this would reduce the burning pain of the antibiotic. It worked. Three: IV #6 (8/16/15) The day had passed relatively smoothly. But, then my IV started to slip out because it had gotten wet in the shower. The IV team came and tried to find a vein that would take an IV, but at this point, I had been pricked so much that there weren’t many good places left on my arms. I was pricked somewhere on my right arm, on the anterior side of my left forearm, and my left wrist on the ulnar side. The third nurse who tried was able to get a neonatal IV into a vein that ran along my left bicep. I didn’t like that IV because it limited my mobility. I wasn’t supposed to bend my arm anymore (because the IV could slip), which meant that I couldn’t move around as much. The pain was awful that night. Because of where the IV was, I could feel the burning of the medication all the way up into my shoulder and even some in my chest. The nurse brought ice packs that helped; she also slowed the drip rate down even more. I know I cried at some point. I could tough the pain out until a certain point, and then I couldn’t and I’d cry. Mom and the nurse arranged seven pillows around me and I was finally able to sleep some in a very strange position. Early that morning, when they brought another bag of antibiotics, I slept through it— which was miraculous.

Two: Goodbye IVs for good. (8/17/15) The morning visit with the doctor had been uneventful. The infectious disease specialist said that I could come off of IV antibiotics either later that day or the next. This was very exciting. I was steadily improving, set to go home tomorrow or the next day contingent on the cultures being free of Yersinia Pestis (the plague). I had been having back pain for days. We had thought it was just swollen lymph nodes in my back, but it felt muscular to me. The pain medicine that they had been giving me the last couple of days hadn’t been helping. I had called for the doctor because the pain in my back and shoulder had increased in severity. Anyhow, my IV tube started to fill with blood and the nurse flushed it with saline to clear it. Then, it filled up a second time. When the nurse was flushing it the second time, the combination of the arm pain and back and shoulder pain was intense, very intense. The doctor walked in as the nurse was flushing the IV and I was screaming. He seemed surprised to see the girl who had just a couple of hours ago been completely normal and calm screaming with tears running down her cheeks. The IV came out. The doctor then looked at where I had been having pain in my upper back and shoulders. Apparently, I had been having muscle spasms. There was knot in my shoulder where the muscles had gotten extremely tense. He put me on a muscle relaxer and a different pain medication and also gave me several stretches to increase the mobility of my arms. After taking the medicine, for the first time in days, I was pain free. All that was left was a headache. A stupid headache that would start when I stood up or lay down, or moved too quickly. But that was quickly fixed when the nurse brought me a coke. On any normal day, you never would’ve seen me drinking a sugary soda, but this hospital stay was an exception. Thankfully, I didn’t get hooked. The night passed peacefully and I was able to rest without pain. One: All is merry and Bright (8/18/15) We got released from the hospital around lunch. My cultures had been clear for over 48 hours and would later pass the 72-hour test. When I walked through the front door, a flood of emotions hit me. The doctors had strongly advised me

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that morning to drop out of school for the fall semester. That reality was hard. Life was going to be very different if I went that route. But, the headaches and fatigue that go along with recovery can last up to six weeks. I couldn’t afford to get bad grades because of illness, but I also couldn’t afford to skip out on resting and recovery because of studying. I really had been quite close to death. My body would take a while to recover. In the dining room were my bags of things for the dorm--everything from bedding to shampoo, to almond flour and fizzy water. Life had really changed in a moment. It had changed in a moment not even remembered or ever recognized—stupid flea. I wondered what the semester was going to look now. I was still going to be Cinderella in Into the Woods. The play was a piece of normal life that would give me some much-needed stability. But, other than that—life was going to be very different. There were many unknowns, and with these unknowns came some anxiety (silly really, considering that God had protected and healed me from so much). That evening several of my friends came to see me. And, as well all sat there, it sort of felt like Christmas for me. I hadn’t died, I hadn’t caught gangrene, and I was with my friends laughing at plague jokes. All was

111 merry and bright and I knew that everything was going to be okay even though everything was going to be different. Later: If this were a book, the following section would be the epilogue (9/21/15) As I’m finishing writing this and am a month and three days out of the hospital, I can’t help on reflecting on the craziness of it all. I did end up dropping my classes for this semester. I was able to retain all my scholarships, thankfully. I’ve been sleeping a ton—after Friday’s show, I slept in until 1 p.m. on Saturday. We just finished our second out of three weekends of Into the Woods. It has been a complete blast. If it were not for the play, there would’ve been no sense of normalcy whatsoever. I generally keep so busy, that is has been interesting being forced to rest. The first two weeks at home, when I wasn’t at play practice, I spent my time lying down and alternating between Netflix and podcasts. It’s weird, the whole time that I had the plague, there were only a couple of times that I felt stressed out (the lung scare when I thought I had infected everyone and

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then when I lost one of my IVs). Other than those two times, there had been a peace from God that surrounded me. I knew that He was going to protect me from death and that it was going to be okay. I later mentioned to mom that I had been more stressed out about biology exams than I had ever been about having the plague. I guess that means I probably should re-prioritize. Here I am in the middle of a Monday, trying to figure out what I’m going to do with the rest of my week. Most of my friends are at school. I think I was the only person bummed when we didn’t have a refresher practice called for the show this week. I’ll figure something out. Psalm 23 The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. 2 He makes me to lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside the still waters. 3 He restores my soul; He leads me in the paths of righteousness For His name’s sake. 4 Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; For You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me. 5 You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; You anoint my head with oil; My cup runs over. 6 Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me All the days of my life; And I will dwell in the house of the Lord Forever.

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Escaping a Dream COLE BOWLING

There she sits. One hand caresses her rum and soda, the other one entwines the hand of an attractive man I have never seen before. I’m working, which is odd considering I do not work in this place. Everything is wrong. Everyone is staring at me except for these two. They are lost in each other. I stand frozen by hurt, and anger. Betrayal and confusion rise to the top. Finally her gaze breaks away from him and her eyes lock with mine. She holds my eyes for a moment before shifting her focus back to him. This is where I wake up. People talk of recurring dreams, but I had never had one until now. It has grown so bad that I can’t close my eyes without experiencing that dream. I’ve always wondered why I never react in my dream. My assumption is that it’s too much, too quick. This is the first time I woke up in tears from a dream. To be honest, I’ve never fully recovered from that dream. Hindsight can be a pain in the ass. Looking back, she never asked for the impossible or much at all. I let my own insecurities drive me into a hole I couldn’t climb out of. What we had was happening too rapidly for her and I selfishly took it as rejection. My own mind came up with the dream that would haunt me forever. I find myself standing outside of her old house, the one she lived in when we first met. Life has changed so much for her since then. There’s a beautiful family living there now. If they ever notice me, they’d think it odd for me to be standing here, staring. They never notice me. It’s almost impossible to get noticed anymore. In all fairness, I don’t really notice them that much either. All I see is what once was, what was once there. In a couple of days, it will be the anniversary of the first night I fell asleep in the arms of the one who fully completed me. It’s Halloween, oddly enough, a night

for nightmares for some, but the night sparked life for me. I know I’ll go to the place where we first met, that bar from the dream. It’s my tradition. Easy to say I’ve never gotten over her. My next stop is the hardware store she worked at. It will be a long walk, but I walk everywhere these days. I set my pace down the highway, watching the cars pass. I wonder what those people are going through. We always take for granted what we have until it’s gone or until we see how someone else is struggling with much more real problems. It took me a long time to figure that out….too long. I cut through a supermarket that I’ve been to too many times to count. That’s when I spot her. For a moment I freeze. She’s walking with her head down. She doesn’t notice or acknowledge me, but she never does. It’s hard to notice someone when you’re staring at the ground. Deep down I know that’s not it though, I’ve just put myself through enough that, to a degree, I have lost touch with reality. For a split second I think of following her inside. Hastily I come to my senses. It would just cause me pain and it would accomplish nothing. Plus, I will see her tonight. Though we won’t talk, I won’t even be there to her. Continuing my trek to the hardware store (even though I know she won’t be there, obviously) I feel as if I could rain tears. I haven’t cried in a long time though. As if I’ve expended all the tears I was allotted for my lifetime. Cutting across the street from where I worked when we first got together, a little pub on the corner, for the first time I realize we never ate there together. Guess it kind of makes sense, neither of us wanted to spend extra time where we worked. I miss that job, and that’s coming from someone who doesn’t know how to miss

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much more than her. Finally I make it to my destination of this part of my day. Immediately I work my way to the area of the rather large hardware store that deals with your everyday (and if you want, not-so-everyday) lawn and garden needs. I saw her here once while she worked here, but that was before we got serious to any degree. I stroll through the rows of flowers, plants, and other random landscaping items. Late October always had the colors that intrigued me so much. People generally enjoy the spring time blooms, but I guess I’m different. That’s why I always adored her so, she never went with the norm. Instead she went her own way. She was special. The fact that our thought processes were so similar amazed me. I never thought I would find the yin to my yang. Guess its human nature for most people to screw up a good thing. I’ve been observing people for a long time now. Generally only for a minute or two at a time, but I’ve still had plenty of observation time. People are so unappreciative of their lives. I remember being one of them. Time to go see her. For the last time today. It’s not that far of a walk, about forty-five minutes. I wish it took longer. All the time I can kill the better. The ability to check in on her for a long time is lost to me. It’s as if the world is ripping apart when I’m around her. Espe-

cially with the realization that it’s all my fault. Memories flood through my head as I walk alone. Some bad, but mostly good ones. The only bad part is even the good ones hurt now. My memories shift to my son. I should go see him. Even though he will have nothing to do with me. I’ve hurt and disappointed too many people in my lifetime, which is why I always walk alone. As if my thoughts conjured him up, I spot him. He’s standing outside a restaurant, arm around a girl and laughing with some friends. He’ll be nineteen this year. Even with his laughing you can see in his face he’s had a tough one. He’s made me so proud even though I was a complete screw up. The next part of the walk takes me through the cemetery where my parents lie. I never told them a proper goodbye. Another screw up. File it away. They lived a good life and did so much for me. I could just never get it together. I made their last few years pretty tough. As I make it to her house I stand in the road and spot her through her larger front window. She’s folding clothes and it looks as if she’s been crying. It’s been harder for her since her son went off to college. Full-ride scholarship to UCLA. He’s a smart cookie. She has a stack of books from out of her library sitting on her coffee table. I can tell

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they’ve been untouched for a while though, there’s always in the same position. I watch her for a bit more, then I take my leave. I want to stop back by the cemetery and try to will an apology to my parents again. It’s all a normal routine. Looking for salvation and forgiveness even though I know it’s futile. The next day and a half go by in pretty much the same fashion. I go from one destination to the next, a huge ball of self-loathing and wondering what might have been. Wondering if anyone ever thinks of me… If I cross anyone’s mind anymore. What I would give to take back the mistakes I’ve made or the pain I’ve caused. Some things can’t be undone though. Some decisions are forever. Although I know she’s had plenty of time to move on, I never found the ability. Even though I see her every day, normally at regular spots I travel, I don’t really know what’s going on in her life. That’s not my place anymore. There’s still a part of me that needs to see her though. If only I could fix all of this, but I lack the tools. We make our beds, then we must lay in them. I make my way to the bar, per tradition. I’m shaky with emotions because this anniversary had such an impact. Stepping to the door, I freeze. It gets harder every year. I gather the courage somehow and step inside. There she is. Sitting at the bar. No doubt that’s

a rum and soda she seems to be staring into. This is too coincidental for me that I almost leave, the dream coming back. I notice she’s been crying. Of all days, I wouldn’t want her to have a bad one today. I wonder what happened. Was it work related? Family issues? Relationship problems? I hate to see her hurt. Then comes the second shock of the night. My son walks in, with my sister and a few of my old friends that I haven’t checked in on in a very long time. They all head to her and sit around her. My son and sister to each of her sides. They look down too and I realize they aren’t looking at her drink. I slowly move in behind and try to steal a peek. They were looking down at a picture of me… See, fifteen years ago today, I took my own life. I didn’t find an afterlife of being gone and forgetting any pain. I found a hell on Earth. A limbo I can’t escape. Though, I didn’t just curse myself to this hell. I cursed everyone that ever cared about me. Nothing I can do can change the pain I’ve cause because of my own selfishness. My wants and desires, and the fact that I couldn’t have them, condemned everyone around me. Things could have been different. Instead of everyone I loved hurting so much, for so long, I could have endured my temporary pain. It’s a lesson I’ll never have the chance to forget.

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